Get it off your chest...

GGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRR.......... eat! Apparently it is good to argue. Well, not argue, but getting things off your chest. According to a recent study - suppressing anger can kill you. At the uni of Michigan researchers studied 192 couples for 17 years (they must have got so damn bored: the mundanity of life and the daily grind researched in minute detail). They discovered that of the couples studied, in 26 of them both partners repressed anger - resulting in 13 deaths. Truly. The bottom line is that is good to express your anger rather than brood and fester resentment - but the whole point is to resolve the conflict, rather than have an endless battle zone that swings from stalemate to front line attack every hour.

It made me think of the time when husband and I were forced by an over-enthusiastic vicar to attend 'marriage classes' at a beautiful church in Farringdon. Naturally husband hated this - being an atheist. He used to consume as much wine as possible before the 3 week classes and then guzzle nuts throughout. While cooing couples held hands and spoke in gooey voices about their up-coming nuptials, husband sat a metre away from me, almost refusing to acknowledge we were even together. Anyway, one night the class was about anger, conflict and resolution. We were asked to define ourselves as either a rhino (charges at an argument, attacks with horns, full of steam and bluster) or hedgehogs (recoil from conflict, curl into a ball and ignore the issue at large). A hedgehog and hedgehog relationship is apparently the most doomed - as each person shies away from discussion and broods on their anger. Rhino and Rhino wasn't too hot either, all crackling storms and rage without much listening going on. We were all asked to disclose who we were. Normally reticent husband gleefully told the assembled lovebirds that I was easily a storming Rhino, but he added that so was he. However he had to pretend to be a hedgehog to get by. They all laughed. He was deadly serious. There followed some god-awful quiz thing where we had to tick boxes to state if our partners had ever (gasp!) sworn at us! Shouted! Called us names! Etc. Husband had never ticked so many boxes in his life. The vicar was keen for us to tell the group our results. I glanced sideways to see a sweet woman lean her head on her fiance's shoulder as he ticked a solitary box. Husband held up his hand super keen. I shoved his hand back down, mortified that my barely suppressed anger would be exposed to all. Husband shuffled comfortably into his seat, casting a smug look that me as if to say 'I'm really enjoying this now.' I willed the class to end before he got the chance to grass me up as the witch I am.

So it is a relief to discover my daily verbal jousts with husband are in fact good for my health as well as my soul. I remember coming back from a holiday one summer - a group of us had all gone away to relax in the sun and husband and I hadn't hidden our little tiffs from the world. Upon return one well meaning friend nervously asked another if husband and I were really meant to be together, concerned as he was for our well being. My other friend knew husband and I better and assured him that our relationship may be a stormy one, but it is solid as a rock.

In the last year or so we definitely have felt the rumble of an earthquake or two in our foundations as we struggled to cope with the strain of a new baby, husband's 65 hour working week and my lack of work stresses. But one thing is for sure - we have no problem in expressing our anger, frustration and pissed-off-ness. Sometimes it is exhausting. Sometimes I crave an easier path. Someone who re-fills the ice cube tray when he has emptied it; someone who remembers to put cheques in the bank when he says he will; someone who understands that sheets and towels do not miraculously wash and dry themselves and then fold themselves neatly into the cupboard. But I would never trade what I have: a husband who makes me laugh daily - often during a heated discussion. Someone who holds a mirror up to my insanity, but champions every avenue I choose to take - even this script editing lark that has seen me out of work for 14 months. A husband who pays a child minder so I can volunteer at Samaritans. One who is affectionate and romantic and knows me inside out. Who works crazy hours to provide for our family. Who has seen me at my best, worst and in between and still is there.

So this Easter - when the kids are wired to the eyeballs on sugar, the traffic is at a standstill, you can't believe you had to spend your precious days off work placating HIS Mother and HE still hasn't fixed the leaky tap in the kitchen 8 weeks on, let it all out! It'll make you live longer....

Rebirth

Don't panic - I'm not about to talk about birth. Christ no! If you recall I don't do birth. Not because it isn't amazing: my friend Eleanor gave birth - drug/air/gas free - last Fri night in 20 mins, with her partner in her lounge, and the midwife hadn't even had time to get there!!! But because in Biology in 4th year we had to watch a video where 'Mary' went through the joys of pregnancy and then splayed her legs and showed us just how precious birth could be. Now Mary needed a good waxer frankly and this alone was enough to put me off - but what followed made all horror movies up to that point seem like an episode of The Magic Roundabout. Mary wailed and howled and pushed and went very red and there was lots of blood and gunk... and then I don't know - I'd hit the floor by that stage. I then faked an asthma attack and disappeared for some fresh air. What I needed was 20 years of cognitive therapy to recover - but anyway, it left such an impression that my birth phobia was perfectly formed and was subsequently enhanced along the way with various other friend's horrific birth stories; full of phrases like '3rd degree tears' 'in surgery for 3 hours' 'stitches that hurt for 6 weeks' '24 hours of pain' etc. I can't even say the word 'dilate' without raising my blood pressure. Truly I was so scared I went to the Docs before I even got up the duff to ask how I could ever get through having a baby without actually having to have the baby. Not that is Irish! Enough of this digression - we are not here to talk birth after all.

It is rebirth I want to dwell on - it is Easter after all. I read over a few posts and my god I sound so moany! This weekend is one for salivating over shiny bulbous eggs ripe for cracking open and guzzling down the sweets inside before devouring the chocolate egg itself. It is also the time that - if we all remember our new testament, and apparently 80% of school kids today have no idea about the Easter story - Christ was crucified and then was reborn. Today was a bit of a rebirth for me - albeit in a small way. A lovely man called Simon came to view my flat. His mate has viewed it already and wanted him to see it as they are thinking of buying it to rent it out. I sold it better than any estate agent has ever done. Simon and said mate are coming back on Friday - if they put in an offer I may just buy them Easter eggs. Plus the job I am after may still be up for grabs... not sure if it is external or internal though - but hey while I don't know - there is hope! Plus my good mate Gerry came round as she is a computer whizz and I am as good at technical stuff as I am at driving... She helped me save stuff on a stick thing and also sort out my blog. She knows stuff, Gerry does. She speaks in a language that is foreign to me with words such as 'codes' 'cookies' 'saver drive' and 'off line editing.' So all in all, a good day. Plus sproglet only watched Monsters Inc on and off 3 times. Husband gave me a loving kiss goodbye as he went to work. I had a good hair day. So much to be thankful for. As my mate Pocket says 'stop worrying about the things that haven't happened yet.' I'm going to make that my mantra and sickeningly try to be ultra positive - at least until after Easter. Until then it's all about rejoicing and rebirth for me... and chocolate.

Home sweet? Home

Did I mention we were moving house? Picture the scene if you will - we live in a small two bedroomed split level flat. The kind that is perfect for a single girl with a flatmate or a couple with no kids or well - anyone but a family of 3. Sproglet's toys take up half the living room. His new game is to hide things - my Origins lotion to secure a good nights slumber has been missing now for 3 weeks and my huge bags tell the story - and somehow everything is on a low level, just perfect for his grubby wee hands to reach. My biggest bug bear - the kitchen. Oh sweet jesus the kitchen sends me into a rage that would rival Daniel's Oscar winning turn in 'there will be Blood.' There very nearly is blood every time I enter that domain. It is small, cramped, with one cupboard to hold everything under the sun utensil wise and one other food storage cupboard that doesn't open well as the door hits the boiler. In said food cupboard is a balancing display that would put a circus troop to shame - but every time I reach for a spice or some raisins for sproglet the threat of an avalanche of tins and rice showering me from every which way engulfs me. To say it is precarious to take out a mere tin of beans is a gross understatement. I am almost taking my life in my hands.

The floor is old black slate tiles now stained and old and shabby. Cracks abound around the badly put-in sink where rivers of water have begun to flow beneath, creating more cracks in the fake granite surface. Oh I could whinge about this room until next year. You get the drift - I hate it. To compound everything - my view is one of a gorgeous London train track and a newly built council building that is a huge yellow monstrosity packed into a space barely big enough to contain it. The kind council began the excavations for it the very day I brought sprog home from the hospital - so I languished in 37 degree heat, in a small top floor flat, with concrete mixers and drills playing a merry tune all day. It was the closest I have ever come to a Michael Jackson kid out a window moment when I er...hung out a window screaming 'wanker!' to a poor truck driver who beep-beeped his way up and down our tiny cul-de-sac 24/7. No wonder Bob the Builder brings me out in hives...

I have wanted out of the greyness of London and the confinement of my flat for so so long. So finally this year - I took the bull by the horns or the estate agent by the balls - and found a beautiful house in a gorgeous little market town half an hour on the train from London. I fell hook line and sinker for this blissful oasis - the rolling views, the big basement to stuff husband and sproglet and all their junk in, the heated floor tiles in the bathroom - I could go on. And the kitchen!! It has drawers!! A dish washer!! The drawers glide as they close and then silently shut. Honestly it is the closest I have come to an orgasm in a while. So we put in an offer - they put the price up - we haggled - I pretended I didn't want it at all - lied, played the game, danced around and lo and behold - it was ours! We are now steeped in mortgage hell and on tenterhooks that it will all come together.

Hopefully we will exchange in 2 weeks and then move in 4. It cannot come soon enough for me. Except.... There is of course a but. I have no money. I have been living of my flat equity for about oh, 8 months now? Maybe more. So I need to get a job pronto. Or else we cannot pay the mortgage on our dream house. So I have less than 6 weeks to - get a job, pack up the flat,sort mortgages, move house, unpack, get a car, furnish new house,clean both properties, get flat ready to rent out, find tenants for the flat and start new job! Phew. How does this make me feel? Stressed to within an inch of my life I tell you. If I didn't dye my hair blonde I am sure it would be grey. After my meeting with Mr BBC drama big wig the other week I thought at last my plant would bear fruit - but it remains a dried up old shell. I thought an opening - MY opening - the one I have waited a year for, would be coming up this very week -but it appears to have been filled INTERNALLY!!! Arrrrgggggggghhhhhhh.

A few weeks ago I wrote that I was at the end of my tether. I lied. I hadn't even gone half way. NOW I am there. On vacation hopefully. But it feels like I am bedded in. Don't get me started on our little visit to a furniture store yesterday when I tried to pick sofa materials, sproglet ran around changing the price tags on everything (I noticed one couple delighted to see a dining table at a mere £125) and then waddled towards me with his hands covered in bright red paint. Turns out they were painting a wall in store and sproglet had discovered the paint tray and decided kindly to help. Thank god his dunked mitts didn't make contact with any fancy sofa or I would have disowned him there and then. Husband went for every leather option and began a battle over which room he had 'the power of veto' over. By the time we left I didn't know whether I wanted a gin or a divorce.

So buckle up - these next few weeks are going to be an interesting ride. I have no idea where it will all lead - but I wish we could swop places. Now where did I put that tonne of camomile tea?

I get by with a little help from.....

What gets you by? For me it is cupcakes. Friends. Blogging. Red wine. Oh yeah - and my anti-depressants! But normally I need to bend the ear of a good mate to vent my wrath, to be able to let off steam and feel human. I'm lucky - I have quite a few good female mates who I bend the ears til they almost fall off - but sometimes, it is hard to admit things even to them. We are all so busy trying to prove to everyone that we are fine, life is just swell and gee don't you all wanna be like me - that it is difficult to open up and say - you know what, my life sucks! Christ if we all were swinging from the chandeliers in the bedroom, cooking up a storm in the kitchen, tidying our houses to Bree style standards, raising perfect rugrats and still holding down great jobs and being a perfect size 6 - feck, we'd be stepford women. Dull as feck. Yet, we try. We are overwhelmed with guilt for craving 5 mins to ourselves to read a newspaper, or for putting the sprog in front of Monsters Inc for the 50th time, just so we can shower in peace. We starve ourselves and stuff ourselves and endlessly diet and berate and massage dimples in order to look better, younger, more glowing... I mean can you honestly tell me you like the taste of green tea? Yeeach.

We fill our houses and wardrobes with status symbols - I've made it! We brush our hair, shave our pits, paint our toenails and hell, even floss. I have no idea on earth why I ever had a brazilian wax - I mean, I like myself - and this is surely a form of self-abuse? Anyway - point of this post is to say - that we all try to get by - to show others that we are successful, happy, content - and inwardly we are often curling into self-loathing balls, willing the ground to swallow us up. If not -then hurrah for you! But me, well my rocky job road is just about sending me to hell and back. I can just not get a break - and on this fair St Pats day - for I am Oirish, I should be drinking a whisky (yuk) and singing old songs and being filled with joy - but instead, I am reaching for the cup cakes.... and despairing of ever getting a script editing job - ever! i thought there was an opening coming up this week but it appears not. I had my frail hopes so damn high and now... well, pass the cakes. Now if you ever feel you can't get by - give Samaritans a bell. They really are the business. I know, I volunteer for them. They don't advise or judge or give an opinion. They listen, they befriend, they support. A problem shared is definitely halved. So if you feel you can't tell others that life aint too good, for fear they would judge you, or try and advise - when all you want is someone to unload to - then don't be afraid to pick up the phone. Samaritans care and they always want to know how you are.

I'm off to bend the ear of a friend I call 'Pocket' - for she is so damn chirpy that we should have a pocket version of her in our bags/pockets to pull out when we need cheering up/help in the old optimism department. She makes my glass seem more half full. And I'm grateful for her. So on St Pats day I give thanks for all my female friends. And anyone who is reading this too.

x

Feel the fear and take the anti-depressants anyway

There is this girl I like. I've never met her. I stumbled upon her one drunken evening when I was digging around (actually her husband's website led me to her - I like his band - having been to 2 of their gigs, including one when I was 7 months pregnant). Since then, I've popped my head round her blog door quite often - she writes the way I think. She's a kindred spirit even if she doesn't know me. The other day she mentioned that she had started taking medication for depression/anxiety. It's a brave move to announce on a blog, no matter how open one is. So I thought I'd show Monica - for that's her name, some moral support and admit that I too have been along a similar path.

Last November I ran home to Ireland. Escaping myself and my grey London existence. My lack of work, the drudgery of motherhood household tasks and long dark days when the husband would go to work and come home at 3am had conspired to rob me of any optimism, any joy. Everything my Mother did made me want to tear out my hair. The poor woman couldn't even make me a cup of tea without me raging at her. She had just split up with her husband and instead of comforting her - all I could think was - another man you have brought into my life as a father figure only to snatch out again. Anyway, one morning I dashed out - storming away from my toddler son, determined to relaim ME - and walked to the sea across from my Mother's house. It was the coldest greyest day (even by Northern Ireland standards) with huge storm clouds brewing over restless water. I sat on a rock and wept. I had no idea how to dig myself out of the hole I was in. Every which way I turned it seemed impossible to break into Tv drama for work. The presenting work had dried up and well... I was washed up. Husband worked such crazy hours that I ate most meals alone; TV and books my only companions. Friends were well meaning, but busy. People have their own lives to lead. Some days the only people I spoke to were the women at the gym creche or a supermarket checkout girl in Sainsburies. Loneliness is cruel. It creeps up on you. What had once been a choc full diary of a single girl hot-footing it around London, lay empty. Other mothers terrified me - they were confident, over powering and seemed to love the happy clappy groups that I loathed. I felt like I didn't fit in anywhere. Husband tried to be sympathetic, but he wasn't around long enough daily to really be there for me. I hated him and his ability to walk out the door and have a life, while I was left holding the (beautiful) baby. Adjusting to motherhood had taken it's toll. I loved my son with all my heart, but I mourned my life and what it had been - the freedom I had had.

When I realised I wanted to curl into a ball and not wake up (the irony being I was a Samaritan this whole time, every other week helping suicidal and unhappy people and yet I was unable to help myself) I knew I had to do something. Going home seemed to be the only answer. My poor Mother, plagued with worry, watched me stumble through days and collapse into bed, tired and weepy; she dragged me to the Dr and made me get help. The Dr calmly offered me tablets - I could hardly see her I was weeping so much. I cried to my friend Nikki on the phone, worried that this was just further evidence of my failings. She told me she was surprised I hadn't crumbled earlier. Other friends echoed these sentiments. I succumbed and took the tablets - Citalopram. But by god, they worked. I've still had the odd weep. I've still worried about work - and how the hell I will pay the mortgage when we move in 6 weeks or so. But by the third day of taking them I didn't feel rage pulsate through every nerve threatening to engulf me. I didn't feel so low I dreamt of climbing out of skin and becoming someone else - anyone, just to not be me. I stopped hating the one man who loves me above all. I stopped despairing and started believing in myself again. It's still a rocky road. I'm not there yet. Maybe I will never be 'there.' But I know I did the right thing. I know my Mum was right to try and help me - because my glass was so damn empty it was dry. Citalopram made me breathe again. The blackness faded and life became bearable and brighter. I coped with Motherhood rather than feeling trapped and caged. It didn't solve my problems but it made me able to deal with them, to be rational, to cope. (And yes, I can still have a drink,in fact on occasion more than a few!)

So good luck Monica - you took the right step. Whatever works for you can never be wrong. I no longer feel like I failed. I defy anyone to go through the year I had and not turn to something to get them through. I'm glad I had - or my Mother had - the serenity to know the things she couldn't change, the courage to change the things she could for me and the wisdom to know the difference.

Thanks for the mammeries

I am the devil. Spawn of Satan. The Beelzebub. Why? Because I didn't breast feed of course. Somehow I have failed my son. I'll be lucky if he is ever able to read the back of a cereal packet, tie his laces or get a single grade, because of the choices I made in relation to my breasts. I'll explain - the other day the husband read out to me yet another article, sprouting the importance of breast being best and how when sproglet is older he will only ever be in the remedial class stream as he hasn't had enough omega 3 - having only ever supped from a bottle from 2 weeks of age and not the Mummy cups that runneth over. These articles piss me off in a way that even the Daily Mail can't. I can literally tie myself up into knots of apoplectic rage and ache to burn all maternity bras in way of demonstration.

Let me go back - to the pre-natal classes that the hospital kindly offered. There were 4 - intro to birth, birth in all its bloody glory, feeding and what to expect when you leave hospital. As I don't do birth (another story and no doubt another reason I should be cast into the pit of hell or burned at the stake) I skipped class 2. As I think no one can ever prepare you for what happens post birth (and there was good tv on that night) I missed class 4. But I merrily went to classes 1 and 3. They were pretty sad these classes if I am honest. The midwife who took them obviously delighted in her one moment in the spotlight and was milking it (no pun intended) for all she was worth. She asked us all to stand up and then our partners to hug us. Apart from the fact husband HATES public displays of affection and could hardly get his arms round my enormous frame - I loathed this exercise. All the women who had come alone, for whatever reason, sat there looking like they hadn't been picked for the netball team. Their seated, blooming forms screaming out their apparent single parent status. It made my blood boil. Fine for those who had partners at work or squash or hiding in the garden shed, whatever, but for those who genuinely were bravely going through pregnancy and birth alone - did they need to be singled out so spectacularly? Anyway, I digress. Apart from mention of the jelly substance that is is the cervical mucus plug dropping out (husband nearly threw up) and green coloured water when your waters break being a bad sign - we got through it ok. Class 3:'feeding' was a whole different ball game. The woman who took it - a thin, ironically flat chested spiteful looking sourpuss) announced breast was best and that was all there was to it. She then proceeded to talk about how to breast feed until you were the cow that came home. I know, from friends' experiences that breast feeding is not always possible and the pressure to feed this way was weighing heavily on my mind. I had enough weight weighing on my wrestler-sized ankles and didn't need a heavy mind as well - so I tentatively asked if there was ever a time when you threw in the towel and reverted to the old bottle. I may as well have stood up and said "I eat live children" and then weed on the floor for the look that she gave me. She visibly recoiled and then said in the most patronising voice she could muster 'Well you make it work for you and don't give up.'

Great. Thanks a lot. Gee that was helpful. Then every time she mentioned bottle feeding (kind of the way someone talks about the neighbourhood peeping Tom - hushed voice, disgusted manner) she looked straight at me. When she handed out horrible plastic dolls to demonstrate how to breast feed - guess who got the position wrong in a room full of 20 women? Oh yes - me. And she let me know by marching across the room and showing everyone how NOT to feed the way I had cupped the scraggily one-eyed doll. When she said there was to be a break, and offered sheets on bottle feeding, that those who wanted could collect from the front table, I ducked down. Who would be brave enough to do the walk of shame? Not me. Desperate as I was for the information I felt ashamed to ask about anything other than how to express with a double bra breast pump, so I shirked at the back of the class hiding behind the husband. The class went on, winding up with her gleefully explaining next week would be a full birth on video and a C section for us all to watch. Hurrah! Naturally when she mentioned a section her face fell, as she intimated that of course we would all want to push and shove until our fannies have split up to our eyeballs (and that intercourse from then on would feel like a pork sausage being thrown up Oxford St) rather than ever stoop so low as to have a baby cut out of us. Why, then we'd be failures...

I was incensed. I left distraught and stomped up the hill from the hospital - straight to the lovely new gastropub. I actually cried I was so bothered by this woman's attitude and my own fear that I would not be a 'good enough' mother if I didn't breast feed until a nipple fell off. Husband was mortified and said he couldn't be seen with a weeping pregnant woman as it made him look awful. I told him to bugger off and get me a Pimms and lemonade quickly. He refused to accompany me into a pub - so I went in anyway. Then he decided to be a bit more knight in trainers and bought me said drink. Bliss. Pregnant women and Pimms - go together like burgers and ketchup.

When sproglet came out - blisssssssful section on the NHS (yaye me!)I shoved him at my dilapidated boob and he suckled. Briefly. The next day as 2 breast feeding experts visited my hospital bed before 9AM(!!!!) he clamped on to one nipple and refused to let go. I was in agony. That afternoon while 2 dear friends visited one of the breast army returned, replete with crochet breast, with its very own erect nipple and demonstrated how to position one's nipple for maximum breast use. Exhausted, thirsty, bleeding and without dignity I shoved the dark unrecognisable nipple into sprog's mouth while my friends tried to talk amongst themselves. Every time I took sprog off breast he howled. Have you clamped anything to your nipple for more than two hours - it fecking hurts!! Anyway, a huge domineering midwife called Ida (I loved her) walked in and said 'Mr Grumpy! He is hungry - do you have formulae?' It was as if I had been pardoned by the king of state - I grabbed the Hip Organic, filled a pipette she gave me and lo and behold, child gobbled milk and slept like an angel. The colostrum hadn't filled his hungry wee belly. Husband was able to bond and feed him and I continued to try and persuade sprog that my breast was in fact, best. Sprog rejected one nipple - the right one - no matter what I did. The only man ever to reject my breasts and he did so with a vengeance. The other nipple felt like it had been set on fire and she chewed and nuzzled and sucked for all her was worth. For 9 more days I tried. I put a bottle teat over a nipple (well a midwife did and believe me it was just as graceful as it sounds); I bought tablets to increase my breast milk; I bought a hand pump and pumped until I was a weary teary mess on the floor - nothing came out, husband sent me to bed worried for my sanity; I got nipple guards that covered my bleeding wounded nipples whilst sprog recoiled from the plastic; finally I got an electric pump and watched as a midwife helped me express - my nipple going in and out, in and out as milk - bright yellow - squirted out of many holes like a watering can. Midwife was delighted. "Ok, repeat this six times a day, six minutes on one breast, then the other, then five mins, then four, then three, then two. Easy?" What? I didn't have time to wee six times a day let alone bovine myself on each breast. I shook in horror. She rang me later to excitedly tell me that she has procured for me a breast pump bra - so I could express on both breasts at once - hurrah! I lay on the floor and wept. Sprog only fed from a bottle and refused my breasts completely. 9 days old and he knew what he wanted. My own Mother watched as I chided myself for being a crap Mother and tearily admit ed defeat. I rang my friend and saviour - Hannah. She said 'Are you doing this for you, sprog or because you think you have to?' I remembered scary lady at the classes. 'Because I have to' I replied. 'Then stop NOW!' She gave me the confidence to say - no, feck this, it isn't for me. I hate it. Sprog hates it. My nipples are cut and bleeding. I am exhausted. The pump repulses me. I rang the midwife back and told her politely she could keep her double bra hell. I look back and wonder why I put myself through such a nightmare when I had enough on my plate with early Motherhood? Why I was conditioned to believe that if I didn't breast feed I was indeed Satan? Why I struggled on until I felt I had a midwife's permission to give up? They felt like teachers that I was forever trying to please. Give me the gold star - I am pumping, taking tablets, wearing nipple shields, bleeding and still am determined!

Never again. If I ever decide to have another sprog - what I do or do not do will NOT be up for discussion. I will decide what suits me and my child. As it happened I took a part time job a few months later (I am freelance in TV - if I don't work, I don't eat) and often had to feed sprog on the plane, in a cab, on the tube, in Sainsburies etc. It was a relief not to have to worry about flashing a boob in public, to feel at ease feeding sprog anywhere at any time. He took bottles at room temperature - and other people could feed him too! I got respite, and sleep! And yes, I drank a cocktail again! That should just about send me to hell by Friday eh?

So to that woman at the antenatal class and all women who make other women feel bad for their choices - shame on you. It is our bodies, our babies and our choice. I made mine, I stand by it. Sproglet is healthy (the 91st centile) bright and brilliant. I'll even wager he'll do fine at school. To all those who breast fed - I applaud you. You and your pumps and creams and cold cabbage leaves in the fridge. And to the Mothers that tried and then - I am not going to say failed - decided it was not for them, good for you too. Have a Pimms on me!

Flo

So Flo came to town. The painters are in. Its red flag day. I'm 'on.' Time of the month. Or personal favourite 'On the blob.' And boy can I feel it. Yesterday: tired, chest aching, the feeling of impending doom. Inability to get anything of note done as lethargy claims me. Jeans too tight. Today - a black cloud stalks my every step and regardless of the gales blustering outside, it refuses to be blown away. Nothing feels right. I worry endlessly: about will the damn flat sell? Will we get the mortgages we need? Will I get work in the next 6 weeks? What will I do if I don't? How will we ever cope? My glass feels not even half empty - it feels bone dry. Nothing raises a drop of hope in my dampened spirits. I crave comfort - soft clothing, dark rooms, blankets, tea and sweet treats. I feel vulnerable, exposed. The husband calls me 'needy' and notes this occurs every time its a red letter day, on day 1. Day 2 I resemble a human again. Day 3 and I fit my jeans again and my sense of humor returns. Normally I visit St. Mary (my acupuncturist) to prick me with needles and wrap my spirit in an internal comfort blanket so I float out her doors, oozing loving feelings and contentment. But she costs £45 a pop, or prick, so I haven't worhsipped at her altar for quite a while. Only sugar seems to ease my frustration. I am sure I should be exercising, drinking wheatgrass and meditating my way through PMT - but who the feck wants to do that when a cupcake is screaming EAT ME from starbucks seductive counter? It's soft creamy frosting curling round the fluffy sponge with flecks of sugared lemon rind decorating the top. Perfection. So I did what a wounded animal does - I hid away. I snuck off to a chick flick with said tea and cupcake then came home with soft furnishing magazines and lay on the sofa, comfort blanket wrapped round me. One minute I snapped husband's head off, next I burrowed under his arm demanding that he love me more and that he drowns me in affection. Why he puts up with this insane bi-polar freak every month lord only knows. There is great TV tonight, so I must away from the blog - even if the laptop is warming my bloated stomach nicely. Hopefully Flo will bugger off sharpish in about 4 days. Until then, pass the cakes....